#atpc

Milo’s always been (or, I guess, had always been) athletic. We made friends in high school, when I was doing a story on the wrestling team for the school paper, and stayed friends when I went to university. For his part, Milo took a “gap year” after high school, which became two years; now, seven years later, he didn’t seem interested in going back to school.

I admired him as he came home from his shift one day in March. He was wearing black khaki pants which hugged his thighs and hips tightly, and the slightly-softened sides and front of his torso pressed against his uniform polo shirt. Standing just shy of six feet tall, he looked like a total beefcake.

He looked as relaxed as ever as he tossed open the fridge. His black hair fell in a tousled mop around his handsome face, and in profile, I could see his nice jawline, cute lips, and Roman nose. Milo had always been one of my hottest friends, but sadly, he was straight. Which had always seemed like a waste of such a perfect butt.

He turned to nod at me as he cracked open his beer, before heading off to his room.

I think delivering pizza for Panetti’s was Milo’s first real job. His family was loaded—I’ve seen his dad described variously as a “mogul”, a “tycoon” and a “magnate” in local news, while his mother was a “philanthropist and socialite”. He lived off his trust fund. But his family seemed to have gotten sick of subsidizing Milo’s NEET life, since they threatened to cut him off unless he found some sort of work.

He’d complained about this to me, but only once. Really, he took it in stride, and simply slid into the first job that presented itself—which happened to be at Panetti’s, our favourite pizzeria. Milo was the opposite of what you’d expect someone in his position to be. He was born with money and beauty, and while I think he took both for granted, I’m not sure he felt entitled to either. He was relaxed and down-to-earth—the type of person who could find a reason to be happy in any situation.

In any case, he never seemed to feel that being a delivery boy was beneath him. I bet he was good at it, anyway—he was a good driver, friendly, and exactly the sort of guy you’d hope was delivering your pizza. And he clearly believed in the product, since he usually came home with one for himself.

I’ll admit, I didn’t think Milo would keep gaining weight. I thought that the first 10 or 15 pounds would scare him off, and he’d go back to his usual diet and exercise regime. But as March marched on, his uniform only seemed to get tighter. He still passed for a jock, but he’d increased the circumference of his once narrow waist, and his polo had become extremely form-fitting.

He seemed chipper one day when he came home from work. I inquired about it as he retrieved his usual after-work beer.

“I got a free pizza today,” he said. He cracked open his beer and took a swig. “Must’ve been a prank delivery, or something, since the person at the house wouldn’t take it. When I called the shop, they said I could throw it away or have it myself.”

“So, where is it?” I asked. He’d come home empty handed.

He looked sheepish. “Uh, left it at work,” he said. He was clearly lying. I bet the little glutton had finished it all.

~

Like a lot of cocky straight boys, and particularly those who had grown up in locker rooms, Milo had been known to walk around our apartment shirtless. I’ve stolen my share of glances over the years: it was easy to admire his narrow waist, toned abs, and steely pecs beneath a set of broad, sturdy shoulders. Now, though, I could see new softness building and growing. I couldn’t help but notice the total absence of definition around Milo’s stomach, how it was starting to become just barely convex, the deposits of fat that had made a home around his sides, a few good meals away from forming into actual love handles.

And it drove me crazier than his abs ever had. I didn’t get it—my tastes had always been conventional, the sort of vanilla jocks that pop culture idolized. But every time Milo’s shirtless form presented itself, I drank it in almost desperately. He looked solid, powerful. A little softer, sure, but the added size, atop his base of muscle, made him look so deliciously masculine. Especially with the way that he seemed to have more hair on his abdomen than I remembered. I’d never been more attracted to him in my life—we were supposed to just be friends, roommates, but I was being driven to distraction.

By May, I was starting to wonder how Milo was getting his pants to button. He never made any reference to it, but I could see how his waistband dug into his new fat, forming the beginnings of a muffin top, and how tight his pants were getting around the seat and in the legs. His chest and arms still looked big and powerful, but I wasn’t sure how often he was going to the gym anymore.

“All my clothes shrunk in the wash,” he remarked, around the middle of the month. I think he actually believed that. He was shirtless, but wearing a pair of his work pants, which were unbuttoned. Perhaps unbuttonable. I couldn’t help but notice how soft his abdomen looked above the waistband of his underwear. “Did you change the settings or something?”

“Nope,” I said, as I took a bite of cereal. Our washer and dryer were old, and barely had “settings”.

“Listen, if I give you some cash, can you get me some clothes at your work?” he asked.

I was an assistant manager at a fast fashion outlet. It was a living, although I feel like my degree in fashion made me a bit overqualified. I accepted Milo’s offer eagerly. We’d done this before: I’d been his pro bono stylist on more than a few occasions, for years now.

I picked out some things that I thought would look cute on him, clothes that would fit him comfortably and flatter his new shape. I’d looked at the sizes on his current clothes before I left, and went two full sizes up—judging by how difficult it was for him to button his pants, that seemed necessary.

It’s not like I lied to him. Sure, okay, I didn’t come right out and tell him that I bought him larger clothes. But I left all the stickers and tags on, so he could see the sizes I had bought. I wasn’t trying to deceive him…

I just wouldn’t mind him avoiding the truth for a little while longer.

He spun around, a shocked expression on his face, and I covered my eyes, slamming the door in front of me as I backed away. “I’m so sorry,” I called out, opening my eyes in the hallway.

He approached the door and opened it, wearing nothing but his underwear. I really did try to avoid looking at his softened, slightly hairy torso. “Hey, no worries. I’m just getting dressed,” he said, motioning me back in. “What’s up?”

He turned back around, and his butt had a definite jiggle as he walked to the dresser. I could see his small love handles over the waistband of his underwear, the first hint of a coming muffin top.

“Um, just seeing if you wanted anything at the grocery store,” I said.

Milo picked up a pair of jeans by the waistband and started stepping into them. As he bent over to pull them up, I watched the way his new belly dangled below him, nudging at the tops of his thighs. “How about… some peanut butter cups? And maybe a couple of boxes of poptarts. And a few bags of chips, sour cream and onion…”

He kept listing things as he pulled up his jeans, but I could see a problem developing as he reached his thighs. Those jeans were definitely looking tight.

When I got him new clothes in May, I bought slim-fit jeans with a 36” waist. That was a full four inches bigger than his original waist size. Now, though, I could see how tightly they fit around his beefy legs, how much the stiff fabric constrained his hefty lower half. And it had only been two months.

“Unless you think that’s too much?” he said, looking over at me, his hemispherical buttcheeks resting like a shelf atop the waistband of his pants.

I shook my head, trying not to blush. I checked to make sure that I’d listed everything—I had been typing without really looking at my screen—and then slid my phone into my pocket. Yes, that’s a stupid amount of food, I thought. “No, not too much at all.”

Milo surprised me by jumping into the air, landing with a loud thud, his jeans now part way up his ass. He jumped again, tugging hard, and his small beer gut jiggled slightly when he returned to the ground. With another good tug, his buttocks were more or less covered; he sucked in hard, and shoved the button through the hole.

When he exhaled, his stomach pooched out above his waistband, and the fly gaped open beneath the straining button. He pulled up the zipper and reached for his shirt, which did nothing to hide his new weight—it fit snugly around his love handles and fledgling paunch.

“I think these clothes are getting too small for me,” Milo said, when he was dressed.

I looked him over. “Do you think it’s the washer?” I deadpanned, trying to keep up my poker face. Surely this would be the wake-up call; there was no way he could remain in denial with his jeans digging into belly fat that hadn’t existed at all six months before.

“Well, yeah,” he said, earnestly, as he rubbed his chin. The gesture made me realize that his jawline wasn’t quite as sharp as I remembered. “I mean, what else could it be?”

~

A few nights later, I was lying in bed, staring at my phone. It was a little after 2 o’clock in the morning.

Add to cart. Confirm. Submit order.

My stomach twisted into a knot when I saw the confirmation message pop up: Thank you for ordering! 

I stared at the screen. This felt really pathetic. Six times now I’d placed fake orders at Panetti’s. It felt unbelievably juvenile, the sort of prank adolescent boys pull once or twice at a sleepover. And I was terrified that Milo’s boss would trace it back to us and that he’d get in trouble, maybe even fired.

But I couldn’t stop myself. I had no idea why, but I kept getting aroused at the idea that I was fuelling Milo’s growth, that my actions could be driving his outward expansion, adding to his increasing heft. 

I imagined his smiling face as he opened the box. I imagined his eyes rolling back when he took the first bite. I imagined him feeling his round little stomach as he ate more and more, until his bloated middle bowed out properly, until the hem of his tight shirt slid up around the lower curves of his abdomen.

I didn’t know what was happening to me. I knew I was acting crazy, but it turned me on so much that I kept doing it. And I watched the clothes I’d bought Milo get tighter and tighter around his increasing girth.

I was noticing that tightness the next day, when Milo came into the kitchen to retrieve the chips I’d picked up for him from the supermarket. I expected him to go back to doing his own thing, but instead, he seated himself across from me at the kitchen table, elbow-deep in his chip bag. “I ate the whole pizza last night,” he told me.

I’d never heard of him finishing a large pizza in one sitting. His gluttony was really starting to spiral, and it was making me absurdly horny. “What pizza?” I asked, innocently.

“The large meat lovers’ that ‘RuPaul’ had me deliver to a wig shop on Adelaide Avenue,” Milo said, with a full mouth and a pair of air quotes. “I scarfed it in one go.”

My cock ached inexplicably against the front of my shorts. “That sounds like a lot.”

Milo nodded, resting a hand on his slightly-padded stomach. “I know, right? I’m still bloated today. I guess I’m eating so much pizza that I just look bloated all the time.”

I blinked at him. You think your ass is “bloated”, too? I wanted to ask. I’ve never seen a guy get so caked up from a bloat. I’d also never seen a “bloat” that wrapped around into a pair of soft sides. “You must really like it,” I said, instead. I flipped my sketchbook shut; I wasn’t going to get any more work done with this conversation happening.

“Oh my God, dude, I like it way too much,” Milo said, grabbing another handful of chips. “I’ve always liked my food but it’s been next-level lately.”

I managed a slow nod. “Nothing wrong with that.” I fiddled with my pencil to keep my hands busy.

“I’m just lucky I haven’t gained weight, with how much I’ve been stuffing myself,” Milo said, as he munched.

You’ve gained so much weight, I thought. He was easily a good 40 pounds heavier than usual. But I wanted to see him gain more. I wanted to watch his little belly thicken and swell and hang further in front of him, while his ass grew fatter behind him, because maybe, if he gained enough weight, I’d stop having these lecherous thoughts about him and we could go back to normal. “You’re just lucky, I guess,” I lied through my teeth. “That athlete’s metabolism.”

Milo flexed his brawny arms and flashed that smouldering, intoxicating grin of his. I studied his biceps, which still looked large and powerful despite the noticeable loss of definition. Every day, his clothes fit him a little worse, and the “ex-jock” label fit him a little better. “I’m built to eat big.”

I gave a suitably impressed nod, trying not to imagine how it would feel to wrestle Milo, to buckle beneath his added bulk as he pinned me down… I’m built to eat big. Well, that phrase would live rent-free in my brain for the foreseeable future. “I guess those muscles take plenty of fuel,” I said, gesturing to his big arms.

He nodded, and grabbed another pile of chips. “That explains why I’m always hungry lately.” He was making very intense eye contact with me.

Right, and definitely not because of how big your capacity has gotten. “Well, keep fuelling up,” I said. “You’re looking super pumped these days.” I was flirting with him. I was actually flirting with my straight roommate, and getting all hot and bothered about how much he could eat.

Milo seemed to like my praise, which made me feel better about how blatantly I was lying. No one else would say he looked “pumped”; at best, he looked like a would-be powerlifter whose bulk was getting (or had already gotten) out of hand. “That’s a relief, ‘cause it’s hard to imagine a guy like me going on a diet,” he said.

I wondered what he meant by “a guy like me”. A hedonist? He probably meant “an athlete”, but I wasn’t sure how often he even went to the gym anymore.

“Nah, you definitely don’t need to diet,” I said. It was like someone else was speaking for me, like the words were coming from some unknown part of my brain that I couldn’t fully control. “Honestly, with your build, you could probably afford to eat even more.”

He laughed, his whole face lighting up. “See, this is why I like talking to you. You give me advice I can actually follow.”

Guilt coursed through me as he said that. It was terrible advice; he was already overeating, and the pounds were quickly burying his godlike figure. I should have been honest with him, and told him the truth—that he was only a few good meals away from being fully, properly chubby. But I couldn’t bring myself to say that. I was strapped in, now: I was no longer a spectator to Milo’s strange new journey; I was turning myself into a full-fledged participant.

“So, you’re coming out tonight, right?” Milo asked me, after some time had passed.

I groaned inwardly. Milo’s friend, Kurt, was the drummer for an indie rock band called Pharaoh Faucet, and they were playing at the Alexandria that night. I’d listened to their music a few times, and it was fine, but not exactly my preferred genre. 

The Alexandria was also super out of the way, which meant the pickings on Grindr would be slim to none. That was a major deterrent, given how pent-up I was feeling—I was hoping I could stop acting so weird around Milo if I ended my dry spell. But it had been too long since I’d gone out with friends, so when evening came, I bucked up and we headed out.

The crowd was even straighter than I’d feared. It seemed that Kurt’s band didn’t have much of a gay following. I was complaining about this to my friend Lydia as we waited at the bar.

“That’s kind of surprising, since Kurt is bi,” Lydia said. She was flailing her arm in the bartender’s direction, but he seemed to be willfully ignoring her.

I tucked that little tidbit away for later, and steered Lydia to the upstairs bar, which was far less crowded.

I looked around for our friends, and saw Milo approaching us, beer in hand. Seeing him in the low light, I couldn’t ignore how tightly his clothes fit around his newly-thickened body, or the subtle softening of his face. God, I wanted to reach out and touch his belly. Or place my hand on his budding love handle. I could see his new weight against the fabric of his new graphic tee; I imagined how soft and yielding his body would feel, how warm he would be. I mentally compared his new physique to the small-waisted jock I had always known, catalogued the hard angles and jagged edges that were softening into supple curves.

“Is anyone else hungry?” Milo asked, as he came up beside us. He scratched his stomach, and the movement of the fabric caused his little belly to peek out beneath his shirt’s hem.

“We just got here!” Lydia said, with a laugh.

“Yeah, yeah.” Milo took a swig of beer, then pointed the bottle in my direction. “But Owen and I were talking about how much fuel these muscles need, right man?” He flexed a bicep and grinned invitingly in my direction.

I nodded. “Definitely.”

Lydia shot me a quizzical gaze, then looked Milo up and down. “So you’re… bulking?” She asked.

I interjected. “This guy doesn’t need to bulk,” I said, trying to spare Milo even the slightest self-consciousness. “He’s built to be big.”

Milo’s grin returned with dazzling brilliance. “See, Owen gets it.” He draped his arm around my shoulder and pulled me towards his chest.

Milo could be so touchy-feely when he drank. It wasn’t the same as touching him, but I could still feel him against me, my flank pressing against his new love handle, nothing but thin fabric separating our bare skin. It made me crave more.

“But man, it’s sort of a tough crowd out there for girls.” Milo rubbed my shoulder. “Am I gonna have to get a guy to buy me a drink?” he mused out loud, as he looked around the room—presumably for a suitable candidate.

I scoffed, “If you find one, can you at least send him my way when you’re done?”

He didn’t get a chance to answer, since someone at the microphone was telling the crowd to welcome Pharaoh Faucet. A roar went up, which I politely joined, and the band took the stage.

Naturally, I checked out Kurt first. He was wearing a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, and a purple bandana was tied around his forehead beneath a blond mullet. He was conventionally attractive, with strong features and full lips. I liked his black eyeliner and piercings. I liked his arms, with their big biceps and tattoo sleeves. And, for reasons I still couldn’t explain, I liked his little beer belly and thick hips. His music I could take or leave, but we stayed through the whole set.

Afterwards, Milo led us out back to join the band for a cigarette. Kurt and I locked eyes immediately, and he moved swiftly in my direction. “Who’s this?” He asked.

“Owen,” I said. I tried to bat my lashes, but it probably looked like a spasm.

Kurt didn’t seem to mind. “And did you like the show, Owen?”

“Loved it,” I lied, taking a drag and trying not to cough. “Your drum solo in ‘Showgirls United’ was so good.” That part was true—Kurt seemed like a really talented drummer.

“I actually wrote that song myself,” Kurt said, with a smile.

Milo was looking at us with unfamiliar intensity. “I thought you didn’t like indie music,” he mumbled to me.

I shot him a look. I didn’t, really, but I didn’t dislike it, and I definitely wasn’t going to blow my shot with a hottie like Kurt over something so trivial.

“It’s not everyone’s cup of tea,” Kurt said. I appreciated his graciousness. He checked me out blatantly, looking me up and down with an appraising eye. “But maybe I can make a fan out of you.”

Milo made a show of checking his phone: “Man, is that the time? Owen, did you want to get out of here?”

Kurt was clearly hitting on me, and I was fully prepared to see where this went. “Um, maybe a couple more minutes?”

“Or actually, maybe Owen could find his own way home,” Kurt said. He turned back to me. “I was thinking you might like to see the green room.”

Milo scoffed. “The Alexandria doesn’t have a ‘green room’, it’s just a storage room with mirrors.” He gave Kurt a glare that looked… warning.

I had no idea what had gotten into him. He was acting petulant. I raised my eyebrows at him before turning back to Kurt. “I’m sure it’s great,” I said. “I’d love to see it.”

Milo pursed his lips. “So you’re ditching us?”

I rolled my eyes. “We spent the whole night together. And how many times have you ditched us for a girl?”

Milo looked away, seemingly chastened.

I said goodbye to my other friends, then turned to Milo. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” I said.

He nodded, but still wouldn’t look me in the eyes. “Cool show, Kurt,” he said, practically through gritted teeth. “I’ll catch you later.”

“Yeah, man, thanks for coming,” Kurt said. Then, he put his hand on my waist, and led me back towards the bar.

---

Part 4 - Milo

Kurt had really pissed me off. I hadn’t seen him in months, I went all the way to the stupid Alexandria for his show, and I wanted to catch up. But he just couldn’t keep it in his pants—he had to go off and fuck my roommate.

“Are you okay?” Lydia asked, as I smoked.

“I’m fine,” I snapped, loudly enough to for people to look at me.

“Jeez, okay, touchy,” Lydia said, smirking. “You must be hangry.”

I sighed—that would explain my bad mood. By that point, I was pretty used to having something to snack on. “Shit, sorry,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck as I stubbed out my smoke. “You’re right.”

“Why don’t we get out of here,” my buddy Omar suggested, rubbing his girlfriend Felicia’s arm. “Let’s go get you something to eat, big guy.”

Big guy. No one had ever called me that before, but I kind of liked it. As in, I really liked it. A lot. It was kind of surprising—if anything, I’d been hella slacking at the gym for the past few months, so I didn’t think I looked particularly swole. But I guess Owen and Omar thought so.

“Yeah, I want Burger Barn,” Felicia said.

So we headed to Burger Barn. I didn’t say much on the walk over—I was too pissed off about Kurt. I knew he wasn’t serious about Owen—he just wanted to have some fun, like he always did. I didn’t even know what Owen saw in him: he looked sorta fat compared to the last time I saw him. Owen seemed like he’d do pretty good in the dating market; Kurt was definitely punching above his weight. Owen is kind of a catch.

Wait, did I actually just think that?! Sure, I liked how he boosted my confidence, but it’s not like I was into him. He was my roommate, not my girlfriend. He was a guy. He could fuck whoever he wanted, even my friends.

“Hello? Earth to Milo?” Lydia was waving a hand in front of my face. “You ready to order?”

“Oh, shit.” I didn’t even realize that we made it to Burger Barn. I also didn’t realize how drunk I was.

I thought a big meal would help me relax. Comfort food, right? Isn’t that a thing? So I ordered a Number 1 combo, with a large strawberry shake and an extra side of onion rings. 

Omar, Felicia, and Lydia were talking about how overpriced the drinks had been, but I wasn’t listening. Just eating. I tried to focus on the food—salt, grease, the crunch of lettuce, the softness of the bun, the crispy coating on the fries and the sweetness of the shake. That worked for a little while. But when I finished eating, I went back to thinking about Kurt and Owen. 

I guess I needed a little more comfort food. So I got another burger. And some more fries. And another shake.

I was so full by the time I was finished. It felt good to be so stuffed, and drunk, and with my friends.

I do wish Owen had been there, though.

~

According to Armando, August could be slow. A lot of people left the city, and for tourists, Panetti’s wasn’t exactly a hotspot. So there was a lull until September, when classes started up again at the university.

But I didn’t lose out on shifts. During the slow times, I was a taste tester for Armando’s entry into the local Pizza Challenge. He made it sound super important, like the ultimate tier list of pizza in the city. So, just when I thought my job couldn’t get any easier, I was now literally being paid to eat pizza. The other delivery guys must have hated me, but I wasn’t about to let them get in the way of the best job ever.

Not that I was very good at it. I never really had anything bad to say, it was always too good. No pizza ever scored less than an 8 out of 10 in my book.

I was testing a pizza called the Sicilian Connection when Armando came up to me at the counter. He put a little plastic cup next to my plate. “This is a chipotle aioli I made, to dip your crusts. I notice you save them for the end.”

I thanked him, and kept eating, dipping the pizza as I went. I finished most of the pie and the whole dip cup.

I was so stuffed by the end, my pants felt really fucking tight around my stomach. I felt so cut-off. I wished I was at home, so I could just take everything off. I stretched a little, reaching my arms around and cracking my back.

Armando smiled at me, and gestured to my middle. “I think it might be time for a new shirt, there, bud.”

I frowned, and tugged down on the bottom of my shirt. The damn thing must have shrunk. I’d have to call our building’s super about a new washer-drier, since this was starting to get outta hand. “Yeah, guess so,” I said. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

Armando took off his gloves. “You’re what, an XL now?” He asked, as he went to the stockroom.

“Huh? No, a medium,” I said. I’d always been a medium.

Armando looked me up and down. “You sure about that? ‘Cause that shirt’s a large.”

I frowned. Didn’t I tell him my last shirt was a medium?

“Why don’t you just come get one yourself and try it on,” Armando said. He walked into the stockroom.

I went in after him. The stockroom was full of canned tomatoes and flour sacks and boxes of plastic gloves. It seemed way smaller than I remembered—more cramped than when I first started.

“Shirts are on the bottom shelf,” Armando said. He moved past me, and my stomach brushed his back.

Once he was clear, I got down and dug around until I found a medium. “Mind if I just change here?” I asked.

Armando shrugged. “Be my guest.”

I waited for him to leave, but he didn’t move. But I was shirtless around Owen all the time, it was no big deal. So I pulled off my work shirt and tossed it on a shelf, and picked up the new medium from the box.

I could tell right away that this wasn’t going to work. I could feel how tight the shirt was around my chest. Then, I started to pull it over my belly—

Wait.

My belly?

How long had that been there? I looked down at myself—but it was like looking at someone else’s body. My stomach really stuck out. I swallowed and pressed my finger into it… I was stuffed and bloated, but there was definitely fat there. There was basically no trace of my abs.

The shirt barely went past my belly button. My sides bulged over the waistband of my pants. With my shirt riding so high, I had a muffin top. I had love handles now. With stretch marks! I felt my sides with my fingertips: soft. I was soft now. This was fucking crazy—and why was I starting to get hard!?

I remembered that Armando was right there, a couple of feet away. Flustered, I pulled my hands away. Armando looked back at me, smirking a little. I didn’t know what to say; I hoped he couldn’t see my growing hard-on.

“So, you sure you’re still a medium?” Armando asked. He reached out his hand and patted the lower part of my stomach where it bulged out from the bottom of my shirt. It actually jiggled a little when he did that, and it sent my boner into overdrive.

My pants were light-coloured, and even in the low light, I’m sure he saw the tent I was pitching. Still smirking, he gave my stomach another pat. But his hand stayed on my side after, and then slipped down to the underside of my gut. It wasn’t big, but it was just big enough for him to push up and jiggle. Feeling it bounce reminded me how damn full I was. “You don’t seem to mind this,” he said.

I really didn’t. I knew it was weird—Armando was my boss, 10 years older than me, and one of the strongest, burliest dudes I knew. But the way he was touching me… fuck. It felt so good. I was getting so horny.

“I didn’t even realize I was getting fat,” I said, looking down.

“I did,” Armando said. He was still feeling me up. I’d never done anything with a guy before, but being touched like that… I didn’t want him to stop. Obviously, I was used to girls touching my abs and lats when we hooked up, but this was… different. My body was different. So what if the hands on me belonged to a dude? I’d never gotten this turned on just by someone touching my body before.

He squeezed the bottom of my belly, hard. I swear to God, I actually moaned a little. It must have sounded pathetic, but it just slipped out. “Boy, you really do like this,” Armando said. His smirk got even bigger.

He stepped closer. Now, there was no room between us. He dragged his hand along my side and planted it on my ass. He squeezed my right butt cheek—it was genuinely wild how much ass I had to grab now. 

“I’m gonna kiss you,” Armando said. He wasn’t asking; it was a fact. He paused, waiting to see if I’d stop him, but I didn’t. I let him get even closer, until he was actually kissing me. One of his hands was cupping my ass and the other was still squeezing my belly and my cock was dripping pre-cum.

I’d never kissed anyone with facial hair before. Armando’s stubble and mustache felt weird, but I didn’t mind it. It wasn’t bad, just… different. There was more friction, but the kiss was the same as any other. Maybe even better. Armando was actually a good kisser.

“Fuck, you’re sexy,” Armando said, when he pulled back. He was almost growling. “Take that shirt off.”

I did. Even my chest had a little bounce to it when the tight fabric came off. When I was shirtless, Armando looked me over. He took his hand off my butt and cupped my belly with both hands. He half-shook half-squeezed it, and it made me burp.

I started to say ‘sorry’, but Armando kissed me again. It was really intense, harder than any time a girl had kissed me. My cock was nearly aching at this point, and I started grinding against him.

“You’re horny,” Armando said. He still looked like he found this whole situation funny—smirking and cocking his eyebrows. It was embarrassing… but in a hot way. Because he was right. It was like the more called-out I felt, the hornier I got.

I nodded. “Fuck, man, I’m so turned on.”

He took one of his hands off my stomach and slid it down the front of my pants, and then gripped my bulge through the fabric. “You can take these off,” he said.

I reached down and undid the button, and pulled the zipper the rest of the way down—my fly never stayed fully closed anymore. I exhaled, letting my body relax.

Armando was on his knees in a flash, tugging my pants down to my ankles. My dick was level with his face.

I started to panic a bit. I was about to get head from another guy. A guy who liked feeling up my new fat. A guy who probably wanted me even fatter.

But then I remembered how rock hard I was. What he wanted, what I wanted, and why—I didn’t even give a shit anymore. I needed to cum. So I closed my eyes and pulled down my underwear, letting my cock bob out.

I gasped when Armando put his lips around my shaft. My dick twitched in his mouth, and he started sucking. He was sliding up and down the full length, running his tongue along the underside.

I kept my eyes closed and tried to imagine hot girls. Corinne, a blonde with big tits… Mara, and her perfect ass… but I couldn’t focus on either one. I kept imagining them laughing at me as they jiggled my little gut. And then I started thinking about my gut, and touching it, and imagining how it would feel to get bigger.

Armando was playing with my ass as he blew me. He squeezed and wobbled it, pressing my cheeks together and letting them bounce free. Girls grabbed my butt almost as much as they touched my abs, so I was used to it. But this time, the extra fat made it so much better than I remembered. There was way more of me back there.

I kept my eyes shut and tried not to think gay thoughts. Which was kind of tough, with my dick in a guy’s mouth. Hot girls, hot girls… I kept thinking those words, like that would somehow cancel out the gayness of it all. But even when I did manage to think of hot girls, I started thinking about them touching me, and then about my body—feeding it, making it bigger. My gut getting bigger, but I can’t stop stuffing my face… Armando would shake his head, he’d have that shit-eating smirk... I'd go home, Owen wouldn't be able to stop staring at me, and—

I came. I came like a fucking geyser. I shot a huge load and Armando gulped it down. I didn’t dare open my eyes, I just let the good feelings carry me along—it felt like I was floating.

Then, I stopped coming. I opened my eyes.

Well, shit.

I undid my belt buckle in under a second, and then my fly, and then I dropped my jeans and underwear. I grabbed my cock and started pulling, my left hand gripping the edge of the counter.

I felt so dirty. Armando was right about me—I was getting off on Milo’s weight gain, in the most literal sense. But he was so fucking hot… What did his face look like, when he finally saw how big he actually was? Surprise, his beautiful lips making an ‘o’? Would he be embarrassed?

I remembered that jolt of electricity when he put my hand on his stomach. That rounded gut, soft and full and creeping over his waistband. Just a centimetre of fabric separating our skin.

And God, when that shirt came off… his torso was surrounded by buttery fat, with mean red stretchmarks on his gut and sides. He even had a couple under his arms, where extra weight was piling up around his chest. And the way his belly spilled forward when he bent over to take off his pants, and how his small double chin really stood out when he looked down at himself, and the image of the leg holes of his underwear digging into his ass cheeks…

I jerked off so vigorously as I thought about putting my hands on Milo’s shoulders, backing him off the scale and steering him to my bed. I’d tuck those beautiful black curls behind his ears so I could admire his perfect face. Then, I’d turn him around and bend him over—he’d go along, because he’d know what a bad, bad boy he’s been—and he’d ask me what I was going to do, in that deep jock voice of his, and he never was very good at hiding his excitement…

I’d pat his butt a few times. Just to remind him that I really could spank him, if I wanted to… and I’d feel it jiggle against my fingers. How could he let it get so ripe and juicy; hadn’t he noticed all that extra weight back there?

But I’d show him mercy—no spanking today. Instead, I’d lean in and take the waistband of his underwear in my teeth. Would my canines rip the strained elastic? I probably could, if I tried. It wouldn’t be that hard, with how much Milo was already torturing it. In just shy of four months, he had ruined those poor undies.

If I didn’t rip them, I’d pull them down with my mouth. I think Milo would like that; he always liked theatrical flourishes. He’d wiggle that round ass in the air, because he also loved showing off. I’d grab it with both hands, feel the full heft of it. I always said no straight guy should have an ass that big, and that was truer now than ever.

I came before I could even imagine what I’d do next. I barely had time to grab a towel, I was completely overcome… so to speak. I gritted my teeth as I shot, to keep from making some unfortunate noise. I don’t think I’ve ever had a more intense orgasm.

My heart pounding, I wiped myself off and tossed the towel in the cabinet under the basin. After I dressed, I washed my hands and splashed some cold water on my face. I didn’t feel like myself—that daydream seemed to come from a whole other person, someone intensely dominant. Most of the time, I was a bottom; my fantasies usually involved guys’ dicks, not their asses. And what was that whole discipline thing about?

I looked at my reflection. Same thin, freckly face, same green eyes behind the same horn-rimmed glasses. But more and more, Milo was bringing out parts of me that I didn’t recognize—envy, power, and an attraction to thick asses and soft bellies. It felt weird to still be learning things about myself at 25, or to realize that things I thought I knew had changed.

I lingered for a minute in the washroom, to give Milo a chance to put his clothes back on. But by the time I came out, he had already left the apartment.

~

The next few weeks were… awkward, to say the least. For the first few days after Milo’s little weigh-in, we avoided each other, or at least, I avoided him. It wasn’t too hard, since he worked a lot. I stayed over at Kurt’s, or went out with friends, or for runs. I let myself fall a little behind schedule on the costumes.

After a few days of avoidance, we graduated to stilted exchanges in the kitchen. Which felt like shit, since spending time with Milo was usually the highlight of my day. But instead of depositing himself on the couch, he took his food back to his bedroom—I guess he didn’t want to eat in front of me, presumably because of my behaviour. He really loaded up, though: pizza boxes, cases of beer, and armfuls of chips, chocolate, and cookies. He was clearly binging more than ever, even if he didn’t want me to see it.

The effects piled up quickly, but because I saw Milo every day, I didn’t notice the steady, gradual change. Then, about three weeks into the month I saw him shirtless. He was heading from the shower to his bedroom, with his towel underneath his wet, hairy belly. I was stunned by the size of it, and the thickness of his love handles. Enough flesh had accumulated around his chest that it had started to droop, and he seemed to have even more stretchmarks than the last time I saw him shirtless, barely two weeks ago.

He saw me looking at him, and I thought I had just set us back to square one, but he actually winked at me. “Been workin’ on my beach body.” He grinned, and gestured to his inflated body.

I cracked a smile, and he went into his room.

But he came back out when he was dressed.

Things started to go back to normal after that. Well, back to our new normal: Milo gorging and drinking and belching his way through hockey highlight reels and MLB games, while I stole glances at him at every opportunity and bedazzled a cape for Aaron, Pharaoh’s lead singer. My costume work was back on schedule, and Kurt had even floated the idea of bringing me on tour—he said he was asking the tour manager about it.

I wasn’t the only one working. Milo was still taking on a lot of shifts, and it seemed to be catching up with him in a few different ways. Obviously, he was gaining tons of weight, but it also seemed to be affecting his mood. As soon as he got home from a shift, he made a beeline for the fridge and started drinking. I don’t know if he did that after working nights, but it wouldn’t have surprised me.

As a general rule, he just seemed happier before work than he did after. It didn’t strike me as a horribly stressful job: he mostly ate pizzas, and occasionally delivered them. But I could see it wearing on him.

I was glad he would get a little break, since October meant Thanksgiving (at least in Canada), and he would be spending it with his family. I did wonder how they’d react to Milo 2.0, though… I’m sure it would surprise them to see how much their darling glutton had expanded.

I for one was planning to use the holiday to do some tailoring. My mom was in Málaga on the advice of a wellness guru (he was quite specific, apparently), and I had no intention of going to Thanksgiving dinner with my father’s new family. I assumed that Lydia’s friendsgiving would be the extent of my plans for the day.

But then, as Milo was getting a few things together on the Saturday of Thanksgiving weekend, he turned to me: “What time did you want to leave?”

After some confusion on my part, I was formally invited to his family’s Thanksgiving. I must once again apologize to Lydia for choosing Milo; but in no universe would I pass up the opportunity to go to a massive lakehouse and watch Milo St. Clair eat an enormous amount of turkey dinner.

~

Gravel crunched underneath the tires of Milo’s car as he headed down the long driveway towards the main house. The forest was thick, and bright red and orange foliage stood out against the evergreens.

It wasn’t so much a “house” as a palace: broad beams of timber and slabs of stone and huge windows. I didn’t realize a house could be that massive while remaining tasteful. The driveway ended in a loop, with a freestanding three-car garage perpendicular to the residence, but Milo didn’t park there. Instead, he parked a few steps away from the front porch.

Milo’s parents must have noticed us arriving, since they were standing in the doorway as we approached.

They looked like rich people: both in tidy cashmere sweaters, him with a glass of red wine and her with a massive diamond on her finger.

Milo’s father had glasses and thin, light-coloured hair, and shared Milo’s Roman nose. Milo’s mother seemed to be the main source of his stunning beauty—same dark hair and luminous eyes and smooth, olive complexion.

Neither of them looked happy.

They greeted me first, Belinda grabbing me by both arms and kissing both cheeks. “You look lovely, darling,” she said. I thanked her.

“Owen,” Greg nodded at me tersely as I shook his hand. I thought he was annoyed at me, but then he glared at Milo’s paunchy middle, before crossing his arms and giving him an irritated look. “Milo.”

“Hey, Dad,” Milo said, scratching the back of his neck. He looked embarrassed. So did Belinda, as she took in her son’s new look.

Their reactions were kind of expected—it had been ten months since they last saw Milo, and I could only imagine how much weight he’d gained since then. He looked like he ate his former, twunky self: his narrow waist was now a definite gut, with thick love handles at the side and a massive set of hips, while his handsome face looked particularly soft.

Milo squirmed. I felt guilty for finding his embarrassment so damn cute.

“Why don’t we go inside,” Greg said. He led the way through the foyer and into the front room. High ceilings and broad pine beams, with views of the forest and the water. A fire was crackling in the hearth, even though it was warm out.

“I’m gonna show Owen upstairs,” Milo said, when we got to the foot of the staircase. “Let’s go unpack.” His head start gave me a chance to admire the bounce of his butt as he climbed the steps.

Part 8 - Milo

I could already tell: this long weekend would be a long weekend. As soon as my parents saw me, I knew I was in for it. I managed to hold them off by taking Owen to his room, but I knew from the looks on their faces that my weight was going to be a topic of discussion.

I didn’t want to go downstairs and face them, so I went to my old room. I always kept a full closet there, so I never needed to pack anything—

Oh, shit.

I realized as soon as I walked through my bedroom door that none of my clothes were gonna fit. I checked my backpack—at least I had a few changes of underwear.

I checked out my closet. I didn’t keep much in there, but there was a hoodie that might fit. I remembered it being really loose, anyway.

I changed out of my t-shirt. My gut really flopped out of that thing as I pulled it off, and it wobbled like crazy. That shirt was tighter than I realized!

I held up the hoodie and looked at it. Damn thing looked tiny—did that really used to be loose on me? I pulled it over my head without any problems, but then the trouble started. I started pulling it down; it really squeezed my shoulders, and my little tits were practically popping out of it. I forced it down over my love handles, past my belly button, but I couldn’t get it all the way to my waistband. I tried to stretch it, but there just wasn’t enough material. My big, round gut was using every stitch.

Of course, that was when Owen knocked on my door. I called out for him to come in, and he did.

He had that classic Owen look on his face when he saw me—stunned, like Bambi on the ice, but also shy. I was starting to think Owen had a crush on me, and I enjoyed winding him up. Apparently, guys really found me sexy now—I figured I’d just go with it.

“Dude, look at this,” I said, gesturing to my sides, where the elastic hem was sliding up my love handles. “I swear, this fit me at Christmas.”

Owen gulped. “I feel like I keep walking in on you like this,” he said.

“Like what?” I smirked at him. “Fat?”

He cracked up, a little, when I said that, and we both laughed.

“I didn’t bring any clothes with me,” I said, shaking my head. “I completely spaced. I never had to pack to come out here before.”

Owen tipped his head to the side. “I mean, that sweater almost fits,” he said. “If you pull your pants up a bit.”

I laughed. “Dude, there is no room in these pants.”

Owen breathed in. “I think you might have gained some weight there, bud.”

I looked down and saw my belly instead of my feet. “Tell me about it.”

~

I spent the weekend avoiding my parents. Which, considering the number of rooms I had to choose from, wasn’t actually that hard.

We spent the rest of Saturday afternoon in the projector room. Owen made popcorn, and we watched Jaws. We all made it through dinner unscathed, and then Owen wanted to see if the sauna actually worked. I joked that he just wanted to see me naked, and he joked that I was the one who had brought up being naked. In the end, we both kept our towels on. He was definitely checking out my belly, though.

After we each showered up, I showed him the bar, where we managed to make some pretty decent cocktails. He raided the pantry and came back with his arms full of snacks—I’m guessing those would be for the kids of visiting guests, but I wasn’t above stealing candy from babies. We drank, and chatted, and agreed that the whole evening reminded us both of high school.

“But the parts I actually liked,” he said.

I agreed with that, too.

It was good to be back to normal with Owen. Maybe it was because of how fat I looked in my underwear, or because he somehow sensed my hard-on, or because all of this was happening in his bedroom, but things had definitely been weird between us after I borrowed his scale last month. Part of that was on me—after getting so turned on in front of him, it took me a few days to be able to face him again. And I avoided eating in front of him, because I was afraid his attention would turn me on again.

Eventually, I missed spending time with him. I got plenty of attention from Armando, but he kind of made me feel like a blow-up sex doll… emphasis on the “blow-up” part. Plus, he still paid my salary, which made things even more complicated. It was totally different than hanging out with my buddy. So when I caught Owen checking me out after a shower one day, I took a chance and tried to break the ice. I was so glad it worked.

On Sunday I slept in, and my parents were gone by the time I left—the note they left said they were hiking. I was kind of glad they let me sleep, since they usually woke me up to hike with them.

Owen met me in the kitchen, where I was trying to turn bread into a fat boy feast. “Want me to make you french toast?” he asked, when he saw me looking at the toaster like it hurt my feelings.

He made some really solid french toast—he said he used coffee cream instead of milk—and I drowned it in maple syrup. It was a damn good breakfast. “You need to start cooking for me more,” I joked.

After an afternoon spent on our asses, I persuaded Owen to drive into town with me for some dinner. We left just in time, since we passed my parents on their way back from the trail.

The nearest town was small, but with enough tourists to have a few good places to eat. I took Owen to Lark’s, where I absolutely flattened the bacon smashburger, along with some onion rings… and fries. Owen agreed to drive back, so I had a few drinks, too. And an ice cream sundae for dessert. With a fudge brownie on the side.

If my old hoodie fit badly before, it was really bad now. It was practically up to my belly button by the time we left, and I had to stifle some pretty mean burps on the bumpy ride home.

We went in through the back door, and I told Owen to head up to his room while I went to get some more drinks. I thought going to the bar in the projector room was sneaky, but I came face to face with my dad, smoking a cigar, watching a black and white movie.

“Milo,” he said. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

That was a fucking jump-scare. “No, I haven’t,” I said. “It’s just… y’know. Ships—urp—in the night.” That burp really came at a bad time. 

“Have a seat,” he said, patting the space next to him. He muted the movie. The black-and-white lady on the screen was twisting against the ropes around her wrists and ankles.

So I wasn’t getting out of this.

“I think you know what I want to talk about,” he said. He took a puff of his cigar, and I sat down. He looked me over, and I tugged on my sweater, but it was pointless—it rode up even worse when I was sitting down.

“I can guess,” I mumbled.

“I’m not trying to judge you,” he said. In my head, I could hear him complaining about that exact phrase—nowadays, and I blame the political left for this, everyone is so afraid of causing offence…. “I’m speaking from a place of concern.”

I gritted my teeth. Concern about image, maybe. “I know, I know. I’m getting fat.” The villain in the movie was twirling a tumbler of brown liquor. I wanted some of that.

“It’s not a matter of appearance. I just worry about your health. I think you should take a look at your lifestyle, and, well, do better.” He blew a cloud of white smoke.

I didn’t know what to say. I felt like a five-year-old who had gotten caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “I’m sorry,” I said, stupidly, even though I wasn’t fucking sorry at all.

“I accept your apology,” he said, which made me regret apologizing even more. “You were such a promising athlete. Hands-down the best offensive winger on your team.” He smiled.

I wish I didn’t, but I smiled back. I didn’t want to care, but I did. It made me think of what he always used to say when I won games—Nathaniel is my successor, Madeline is my prodigy, and Milo is my champion. It was like… okay, I’d never be successful like Nate, or smart like Maddy, but I could still be strong. I could be a winner.

Now, though… I tried to imagine what it would be like to skate with all this extra weight. I used to be a really good skater, but now, my balance would definitely be off. And my endurance would probably be shit.

I was trying to figure out what to say, but my dad wasn’t done. “You know, you’re turning 25 soon, which means full access to the funds held in trust for you. But that money isn’t an excuse to be lazy—”

That’s when Owen saved my fat ass. He seemed surprised to see us when he walked in. “Oh, sorry to interrupt. I was—”

My dad gave him an annoyed look. “It’s fine. Milo was just leaving.”

I sure was.

~

On Thanksgiving Monday, I woke up hungry and embarrassed. Waking up hungry was getting to be a pretty regular thing for me, but the “embarrassed” part was left over from Dad’s ambush yesterday.

I had toast for breakfast, going over the whole interaction again and again. He was probably telling the truth about worrying over my health, but he sorta gave the game away by bringing up my days as a high school hockey star. It was just ego—healthy or not, he didn’t want me making the family look bad.

This is probably a good time to say: I’m not a spiteful person. I usually let things go pretty easily. But this was personal. He was talking about my body. And as hard as it was to admit, I was kind of enjoying how my body was changing. I definitely loved to eat. And okay, maybe I didn’t love how big my legs and ass were now, but people clearly still found me hot, and I was finding myself pretty hot, too. I was just trying to figure shit out, and getting a surprise lecture didn’t help with that.

All of that should help explain my behaviour at Thanksgiving dinner.

I think Owen could sense storm clouds all morning. Instead of snacking like I usually did, I was saving my appetite for the main event. After I spent most of the day playing NHL 25, I went up to my room to change.

Since it was a special occasion, I figured I should at least try my old khakis. They were a 32” waist, and my waist was… definitely not 32 inches. I didn’t even get the chance to try to button them, anyway, since I couldn’t get them all the way over my ass—the top of my butt was bulging over the top when I finally gave up.

I headed down to the kitchen in the same gray sweatpants and t-shirt I had arrived in. My mother was wearing pearls and a dress, my dad had on chinos and a blazer, and Owen was wearing a tweed jacket over his turtleneck. I felt like a slob.

My mom poured me a glass of wine. “We just opened the Latour,” she said, “Your father is about to carve the turkey.”

I gulped my wine and watched hungrily as Dad cut up the massive bird. My parents always cooked together, and they usually went all out on Thanksgiving—roasted vegetables, mashed potatoes, sweet potato casserole, stuffing, cranberry sauce, gravy… just looking at the spread made my mouth water.

There was a debate over who should serve themself first, but my parents insisted on Owen, and Owen insisted on me, so I started loading up my plate. And I do mean loading it. That thing was piled up. But like, why did they make so much food, if they didn’t want me to eat it?

Mom looked shocked at the size of my first helping, while my dad watched with crossed arms and a frown. I ignored them. He was worried about my “health”? My “lifestyle”? Well, maybe he needed to see that lifestyle in all its glory.

I didn’t wait for anyone else to sit down: I started right away. Owen waited for my parents, and they all started eating at the same time.

I drained the last of my wine and poured another glass, earning another huffy glance from my father. He always said I didn’t know how to appreciate good wine, and he was absolutely right.

“This is delicious, Mr. and Mrs. St. Clair,” Owen said. He had taken a little of everything, and he was eating it slowly.

“Really good,” I agreed, through a full mouth.

“You certainly seem to be enjoying it,” my mother said, looking at me. I could tell my pigging out was starting to test her composure.

I just grunted and kept eating, not even caring that food was getting on my shirt and the white linen tablecloth. I had served myself a whole turkey leg, and I picked it up with my hands and tore off a big bite, like a medieval king.

“Do you mind?” my dad said, giving me a dirty look. “You’re being disgusting.”

I shrugged. “Aren’t you happy I’m enjoying your meal?” I said, as I chewed. I patted my round stomach; I was already bloating up, and I was barely half way through my first serving.

He rolled his eyes, and turned back to Owen. “Anyway. Are you still working at the… clothing store, Owen?”

I glared at him. I was used to him being rude to me, but there was no excuse for talking down to Owen.

“Uh, for now,” Owen said, as he sliced a carrot. “But I’m looking for more serious design work.”

“And are you worried about artificial intelligence?” my dad asked. “A lot of that work will be automated in the next decade.”

God, shut up! I wanted to say. I took another huge bite of turkey leg. 

“I’m not particularly concerned,” Owen said. “Creative work will always need a human touch. It should, anyway.”

“Absolutely right,” my mother said. “Don’t listen to Greg, honey; he can only think like an engineer.”

At least Mom still had some manners. I shoveled a forkful of mashed potato into my mouth and washed it down with more wine. I wiped my face with a napkin, and realized how filthy it had been.

“Owen is designing costumes for a band right now,” I said. “For their national tour.”

“Don’t remind me,” Owen said. “I’m gonna be so busy tomorrow with finishing touches.”

That invited some polite questions from my mom. I finished my first plate, and got up to get more. I was a little pleased to see how blatantly disgusted my dad looked when I announced that to the room. “And I’m gonna open another bottle of wine,” I said.

“The pinot is on the kitchen counter!” My mom called after me.

I came back with an overloaded plate in one hand and an open bottle in the other. I still had some wine in my glass, but I poured myself some more from the new bottle. My parents looked absolutely mortified.

Then there was some more polite conversation that I barely registered—my parents’ winter plans (skiing in Whistler, a trip to the Maldives); how Owen’s family was spending Thanksgiving; questions about Nate and Maddy. I was laser-focused on filling my belly with as much dinner as possible.

I used a dinner roll to soak up some of the ocean of gravy, and then filled my fork with turkey, dressing, and mashed potatoes—is there a name for trying to get the best bite possible? Can we call it bite-maxing? I was definitely bite-maxing.

My stomach was so full by this point, it was starting to get kind of uncomfortable. I shifted in my seat, and the ancient wooden chair creaked a little, which was obnoxious. That was when I noticed that my ass didn’t fit on the seat anymore; I was literally spilling over the edges. My huge legs blocked the fabric from view, and my bloated gut covered the tops of my thighs.

I noticed everyone staring at me. I was so zoned-out I didn’t even realize they had all finished eating, and I was the only one still stuffing my face. I looked around the table: Dad, looking angry; Mom, looking uncomfortable; Owen staring at me across the table with wide eyes.

I could see my parents actively willing me to stop eating, but I didn’t stop. Didn’t want to. I chugged some more of my fancy wine mixture, and started mopping up the last, mashed-together remnants of food with another bread roll.

When my plate was spotless, I leaned back in my chair, which creaked again. My t-shirt was covered in stains, and my stomach was so round and full that it was starting to ride up, so when I stretched, I could feel the air against my fat sides and the lower part of my belly. I didn’t even bother to pull it down. I just patted my gut and let loose a long, loud burp. Owen turned bright red when I did that, looking between my parents’ faces.

My dad banged his fist on the table. “Why do you insist on behaving like a child?” he asked.

“Because you treat me like one,” I said. If he wanted to do this in front of Owen, that was his choice.

“After everything your mother and I have given you, this is how you act?” He really looked mad.

“Stop it, Greg,” my mom cut in. She turned to me. “Knock it off, both of you. We have a guest. It’s Thanksgiving.”

“I dunno what you mean,” he said, the picture of innocence. Was I imagining things, or did he look even bigger now than when we drove up three days before? His stomach looked so soft and full, and the cotton of his t-shirt pulled tight over a definite pair of moobs. A juicy pair of love handles also overhung his waistband, barely covered by his shirt.

I raised an eyebrow. “Come on. The turkey leg. And the burping?”

“For your information, I always ate turkey legs like that, with my hands, and nobody ever had a problem with it before. And burping is a natural bodily function.” He was clearly enjoying himself as we sailed down the highway—for the Tuesday after Thanksgiving, traffic was miraculously light, although the forest was steadily giving way to suburban sprawl.

“So it had nothing to do with your parents?” I asked.

Milo shrugged. “My dad can be such a prick. I hate how shitty he was to you,” he said, after a while. He was looking at the road, but I could see in his eyes that he was genuinely upset on my behalf.

“It was nothing compared to how he treated you,” I said. It was true. I had met Milo’s father before, and I always found him condescending, but he was in rare form yesterday. I hadn’t expected him to clash with Milo so openly—on the rare occasions he agreed to be profiled in a magazine, he came off as genteel, polished, unflappable. Milo really got a rise out of him.

Milo shrugged, but I could see even more hurt in his expression. There was a pause. “I’m over it,” he said, finally. “I got even.”

I wanted him to open up, to tell me that he very clearly was not over it, but I had no idea how to pierce his very heavy emotional fortifications. So we rode in silence for a few beats, before he turned to me, with a grin on his face. “But anyway… you think I put on a show?”

I swallowed, wondering why I had brought it up in the first place. And so bluntly! I gave a small nod.

“What’d you think?” he asked, still grinning, lively eyes flicking between me and the road ahead.

I didn’t know what to say, because I obviously really fucking liked it. But how the hell could I even begin to explain that? What did he want me to say? The whole thing happened in front of his parents, which makes my reaction even more upsetting! I’m amazed I kept my shit together as well as I did, especially when Milo insisted on making us sit through dessert—which, miraculously, he managed to have two plates of. 

“You must have been… hungry?” That was my weak-ass response.

Milo gave an amused huff, before signalling right and exiting the highway. We were about an hour outside the city, taking the off-ramp into some bedroom community full of strip malls and subdivisions. There was, however, a combination gas station-KFC just off the highway, and that’s where Milo headed.

I was amazed he could even think about food after his all-out feast yesterday. Even a fraction of that would have left me full until the next afternoon, at least. Milo was just built different—you could tell by the way his soft, round belly now sat atop his lap, or the stubbly double chin that graced his gorgeous face.

After we finished at the drive thru—leaving Milo with what seemed like half the menu in a pair of heavy paper bags—I made a very irresponsible suggestion: “If you wanna pull over and eat, I can run into the store and get snacks?”

Milo’s face lit up. “Dude. You’re a genius.”

I headed into the gas station and started grabbing things. I knew Milo’s tastes pretty well by now—ketchup chips and Nacho Cheese Doritos were a must—but I still liked to improvise a little bit, whenever I shopped for him. I chose some candies I thought he might like, and then added a bottle of chocolate milk for good measure, since his soda wouldn’t last forever.

The cashier gave me a look as he scanned everything, but didn't make conversation.

Milo was still eating when I carried everything back to the car. He was stuffing his face with a huge handful of fries when I got in the passenger seat, and I smiled at the way his cheeks bulged around the huge bite. “So good, dude,” he said, barely intelligible through his full mouth.

“I’m glad,” I said, stealing a fry.

“Man, chocolate milk? Are you, like, a mind-reader or something?” Milo said. It’s genuinely embarrassing how much his big, goofy grin made my heart leap.

~

Less than two hours after I dropped off the costumes at Kurt’s apartment, he ended things. By text.

This was the day after Milo and I got back from Thanksgiving, and the day before Pharaoh was scheduled to leave for Halifax.

I stared down the double-barrel of Kurt’s back-to-back messages:

One: thx for the costumes! They’re great

Two: I hate to do this over text but I don’t think we should see each other any more. It was v fun but the next 2 months are crazy for me and i won’t rly be around to talk much. I’ll look you up when i get back tho!

At least he had the courtesy to be clear about it, since I guess he could have just ghosted me. We’d been seeing each other non-exclusively for a few months, so there wasn’t really much of a relationship to “break up”.

I chalked it up to him being more used to dating girls, and moved on to cleaning up the mess I’d made in the course of costuming his whole band. I don’t know why he dangled the tour in front of me: maybe he was trying to manipulate me into accepting sweatshop wages, but I doubt he was planning to dump me when he suggested I come along. It was probably just poor impulse control. I really have a type…

I could go on about how I cleaned the apartment, or talk more about Kurt, but let’s be honest—no one cares. Kurt is a handsome guy and a skilled musician, and in another life, we could have been a great match. But on some level, I’m sure he could tell he was playing second fiddle to some other man in my life… a man whose gluttony and girth were gradually becoming my total obsession.

~

The waning days of October brought colder weather, which meant even more time spent indoors with Milo. 

Armando must have been absolutely pumping him with calories, since his weight continued its sharp climb. Milo could be… obtuse, but even he must have realized what Armando was doing. I wanted so badly to ask about what was going on between the two of them, but Milo completely clammed up when I mentioned anything to do with his work. Naturally, that only made me more suspicious.

I knew Armando was up to no good—he basically admitted as much when I met him on my birthday. I regretted not telling Milo about that meeting, when Armando revealed his true intentions. But the time to bring it up had passed, and, as I said, Milo could see for himself how much weight he was gaining.

I’ve mentioned before how much I could not. Stop. Looking at him. But now that his clothes were tightening up again, showing off the full extent of his soft, inviting bulk, I really could not stop. I enabled every gluttonous impulse he had, and he seemed to like putting on a show for me whenever he ate—which was a lot. I was driven to a distraction that was becoming all-consuming.

And by now, you’re probably thinking: enough with this chaste, Victorian shit! No more stolen glances, Emily Brontë! Just whip your dick out already!

Trust me, I was getting fed up with it, too. There was something going on between us, and the tension was getting hard to ignore. We were two attractive, 20-something guys. Since things ended with Kurt, my horniness had been off the charts, but I hadn’t done anything about it—I was too preoccupied with thoughts of Milo to look for a hookup. Every hour we spent together, I could feel some invisible coil winding tighter and tighter, until even the most mundane moments were stupidly meaningful.